Maluck woke up, stretched, and checked his stat sheet.

  Bad Luck Points: 120

  “Eeerrr, yeah, that’s not good.”

  He immediately tapped his Fortune Tuner, dumping 25 Luck Points into it. The shift was instant—bad luck drained away, converted directly into good luck.

  Luck Points: 60

  Bad Luck Points: 0

  “Ah, much better,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  He’d learned the hard way that crossing the 100 Bad Luck threshold was asking for disaster. The last time he’d let it climb that high, his entire room flooded because of a burst pipe. Coincidence? Maybe. But Maluck wasn’t risking it again.

  Now that he was cleared of bad luck debt, he flipped through the System Store, scrolling past the usual nonsense—temporary buffs, minor luck adjustments, probability tweaks—until something caught his eye.

  (35 LP) Foolproof Escape Ticket

  One-time use. If things go south, an unexpected distraction or coincidence will let you escape unharmed.

  Maluck grinned.

  “Oh, this is perfect. We’ve got a heist coming up, and I’d really prefer to leave with loot instead of bullet holes.”

  He hit BUY without hesitation.

  This left him with exactly 25 Luck Points, but he still had his daily free spin.

  Maluck cracked his knuckles. “Alright, let’s see if the universe is feeling generous today.”

  He tapped the Spin button. The wheel whirred to life, flashing past categories—Jackpot, Small Prize, Sorry Try Again, Bonus Luck, Minor Curse—before finally slowing down.

  Maluck leaned forward, watching it carefully. “C’mon, big money…”

  The wheel ticked past Jackpot (of course), hesitated on Sorry Try Again, and finally landed on—

  +5 Luck Points!

  Maluck exhaled in relief. “Hey, I’ll take it.”

  His balance ticked up to 30 LP, and he grinned. A small win, but in the world of luck management? Every point counted.

  ***

  Maluck rolled out of bed, stretched, and prepared for another day of maintaining his awesomeness. His morning routine had become increasingly rigorous, but at this point, it was just part of his luck-based lifestyle.

  First stop: the gym. Despite relying on probability manipulation more than brute force, he still believed in functional strength. No point in being lucky if he couldn’t outrun, outlift, or outpunch a bad situation when necessary. He powered through his workout, feeling good about himself—until he remembered that the gas station tour was next.

  Some people needed coffee in the morning. Maluck needed to play the lottery like a hyperactive monkey. He had a route—different gas stations, different locations, spreading out his luck like a hedge fund manager diversifying his portfolio. One store had a history of big wins, another had a cashier who looked just psychic enough to be suspicious, and one just felt lucky. Completely unscientific, but it worked for him.

  By the time he returned to the Emerald, breakfast was the final ritual. And not just any breakfast. No, this was the kind of five-star meal that made regular people unbutton the top pant’s button. A perfectly seared steak that was so tender it practically melted, eggs so fluffy they defied physics, and pancakes so golden they deserved a royal title. He washed it all down with a cup of coffee so strong it could legally be classified as a controlled substance.

  Now he was ready to start the day.

  Kicking back in his ridiculously comfortable luxury suite, feeling both highly productive and completely irresponsible at the same time, Maluck grabbed his phone and called Jamal.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The line barely rang once before Jamal picked up.

  “Yo! Boss man! What’s up! Do you have work for me?”

  Maluck smirked. Still no real job, no real tasks, and yet Jamal was already treating him like he was a messiah.

  ‘This was going to be fun.’

  To be fair, Jamal had every reason to be in a great mood. In just the past few weeks, he had gone from barely scraping by to having a car, a steady job, and watching Mike systematically destroy Tanya in court. All thanks to Lucky Star Ventures and Maluck’s divine gift for making life weirdly profitable.

  And honestly? Maluck liked the guy. Jamal wasn’t just a nice guy—he was good. Charismatic, adaptable, and sharp. If he’d had better opportunities earlier, he probably wouldn’t have needed Maluck’s help at all. But now? He had skills and potential, and Maluck wanted to see exactly what he could do.

  “Hey,” Maluck said, “you free this morning?”

  “For you? Always.”

  “Cool. Meet me in my room at ten.”

  Jamal paused. “Hold up—you live in a hotel, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So… ‘room’ is misleading. You mean your ridiculous top-floor luxury suite with the outdoor balcony, insane room service, and the best view in the city?”

  Maluck grinned. “You could just say ‘yes,’ Jamal.”

  “Bro.” Jamal sighed. “I barely know what it’s like to have a working AC unit, and you’re out here living like a major league crime boss.”

  “Crime boss is a little strong,” Maluck said, stretching. “Let’s go with luck-based entrepreneur.”

  Jamal snorted. “Right. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  By the time 10 AM rolled around, Maluck was already kicked back in his outdoor seating area, sipping coffee like a man who should have been doing something more productive but wasn’t going to.

  Jamal showed up exactly on time, took one look at the luxury setup, and let out a low whistle.

  “Man. I don’t know whether to be impressed or dazzled by this place.”

  Maluck smiled, gesturing toward a chair. “Go ahead. Breathe in the success.”

  KNOCK KNOCK.

  Room service entered.

  Maluck hadn’t been stingy knowing that Jamal was coming over. He had set up and ordered a proper high tea service—not just any high tea, but the kind that would make British aristocrats nod approvingly and commoners weep at the extravagance.

  The hotel staff had gone all out. The three-tiered serving stand alone was a work of art.

  On the bottom tier, there were finger sandwiches, each one so precisely cut that Maluck swore they used laser-guided knives. The fillings were no joke either:

  ?Scottish smoked salmon with lemon crème fra?che on dark rye, garnished with the thinnest slice of cucumber imaginable.

  ?Coronation chicken—a fancy way of saying curried chicken salad with mango chutney on soft brioche.

  ?Egg salad with black truffle because normal egg salad was for peasants.

  ?Cucumber and cream cheese with fresh dill—a high tea staple, because apparently, rich people love cucumbers.

  The middle tier was where the pastry chef had truly flexed. It was a delicate battlefield of miniature desserts:

  ?Raspberry and rose éclairs, filled with an impossibly light cream that probably took a team of experts years to perfect.

  ?Matcha opera cakes, tiny green squares layered with almond sponge, matcha buttercream, and a chocolate ganache so glossy it reflected regret for past life choices.

  ?Mille-feuille, otherwise known as Napoleons, stacked so perfectly that Maluck half expected them to be under structural analysis by the hotel’s engineering department.

  ?Mini lemon tarts with torched Italian meringue, giving just the right balance between citrusy zing and melt-in-your-mouth perfection.

  But the top tier? That was where things got serious. The scones.

  Not just any scones—golden, buttery, slightly crisp on the outside and fluffy inside. The kind of scones that could single-handedly solve international conflicts if distributed properly. Served with:

  ?Devonshire clotted cream, so thick and rich it practically required a financial advisor.

  ?House-made strawberry preserves, because normal jam wouldn’t cut it.

  ?A separate dish of wildflower honey, harvested from bees that were probably treated better than most employees in corporate jobs.

  And then, of course, the tea itself.

  Maluck had no idea what he ordered, but the server had brought out an entire selection of premium blends, all served in delicate porcelain cups that felt way too expensive to be holding something as simple as hot water.

  ?Darjeeling First Flush—the “champagne of teas,” because, obviously, rich people couldn’t just call it “tea.”

  ?Jasmine Pearl Green Tea, where each tiny pearl unfurled like a slow-motion action sequence in hot water.

  ?Earl Grey Imperial, which apparently had bergamot so fresh it had been “hand-picked under a full moon” or some nonsense.

  ?A secret house blend, which the server whispered was made with “rare Himalayan herbs and ancient tea leaves passed down through generations.” Maluck was 99% sure that was a lie, but it tasted fantastic, so he didn’t question it.

  Jamal, upon laying eyes on the sheer luxury of it all, froze mid-step, slowly removed his sunglasses, and stared.

  “Bruh.”

  Maluck smirked, gesturing grandly to the setup. “Welcome, Jamal. To the high life.”

  Jamal slowly sat down, still in awe. “Man, I thought we were just having some coffee. What the hell is this?”

  “This, my friend, is a proper high tea. We drink our tea, eat our overpriced sandwiches, and pretend we are better than other people.”

  Jamal reached for a scone, bit into it, and went completely silent for a moment.

  Then, in a hushed, almost reverent tone, he muttered, “Yo. This is actually the best damn thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  Maluck nodded sagely, taking a slow sip of his tea.

  “Welcome to the high class, Jamal.”

  Jamal nibbled at his scone, shook his head, and grinned. “Alright, boss. What’s the deal?”

  Maluck leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. “Well, Jamal… today’s the day I finally give you an actual job.”

  Jamal’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait—for real?”

  Maluck nodded.

  Jamal clapped his hands together, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, hell yeah. I’ve been waiting for this.”

  Maluck’s smirk widened. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Because that job was going to be crucial for Lucky Star Ventures.